


A Demon's Guide to Exorcism, Haunted Flats, and Murderous Plants

by Laur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (for Hastur), Angst and Humor, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Body Horror, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Exorcisms, F/M, Getting Together, Halloween Challenge, Happy Ending, Haunting, Injury, M/M, Moving In Together, Murder Husbands, Non-Explicit Sex, Possession, Spooky, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:09:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27313138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: Crowley had a problem but wouldn't admit it. So what if his garbage disposal turned on by itself and his bed shook in the middle of the night and his plants tried to kill him? Demons weren't afraid of anything.Meanwhile, Aziraphale was puzzling out if Crowley had unofficially moved into the bookshop.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 82
Kudos: 200
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was inspired by the prompt 'haunt' for Racket's 13 Days of Halloween. I had planned to have it all posted by Halloween, but then I got busy, so instead I'm starting posting today. Enjoy!

It wasn’t that Aziraphale didn’t love having Crowley around. Truly he did.

Since their little switcheroo trick on their bosses, it had felt joyously novel the way Crowley would saunter into the bookshop at all hours. There was no sneaking required; he could laze about the place without a care in the world. Several weeks into Adam’s reset reality, several weeks of Crowley’s casual comings and goings, and still Aziraphale’s heart swelled with happiness when Crowley brought baked treats for breakfast which dragged into lunch, or when Crowley lurked in the bookstacks and unnerved the more persistent customers, or when Crowley nattered at him about this or that while Aziraphale took inventory.

Crowley had even taken to napping about the shop. He’d splay out on the couch with his headphones on, and while the tinny bebop blaring from the miniature speakers was rather distracting, his tranquil face while asleep made him look downright angelic. He’d curl up in a warm pocket of sun between bookshelves, and while Aziraphale had nearly tripped over him more than once, the faint hissing of his somnolent breaths was so adorable Aziraphale couldn’t bear to move him. One night, Aziraphale had found him asleep on the _ceiling_ , which was bemusing but at least _out of the way_.

“—brilliantly evil, really,” Crowley was saying from his spot on the couch, tapping away on his mobile phone and jiggling his leg as though his foot were on consecrated ground. “They let you try the game for free, reel you in, and once they’ve got their hooks in you, that’s when the in-app purchases start.”

Aziraphale looked up from his book with a sigh. His eyes flicked to the clock – half three in the morning. The pile of books he meant to read kept getting bigger rather than smaller, and the blame could be easily attributed to one bored demon.

“Of course, you don’t _have_ to buy anything, not unless you want to get to the higher levels. It’s free will but there’s really only one choice—"

The thing was, Crowley had been spending an awful lot of time in the bookshop, and Aziraphale enjoyed his company, he did, but Crowley _did_ tend to get underfoot.

He’d thought about perhaps purchasing a bed for Crowley to sleep in, but then where would he _put_ it, with all the books? And a bed seemed terribly premature, inappropriate – presumptuous, even! – considering they hadn’t so much as hinted at changing their living arrangements. Not that Aziraphale would be opposed to Crowley living with him. It was just that the bookshop didn’t really have room for two human-shaped beings, what with, well, all the books. And, of course, Crowley would need his own space, a cozy nook on the second floor, perhaps, if Aziraphale stretched the fabric of space a little—

Oh, he was getting ahead of himself.

Crowley was still babbling about crushing candy or something equally inexplicable. Placing a finger in his book to keep his spot, Aziraphale looked over his demonic friend, considering. He looked tired, Aziraphale thought, with his hair in disarray and too-bright eyes and his foot jittering against the arm of the couch.

Aziraphale wasn’t always the most observant when it came to his friend’s wellbeing. He was trying to change that. “Are you quite well, my dear?”

Crowley made a little exclamation of annoyance at his phone, his tapping intensifying. “Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I can’t recall the last time you had a proper night’s sleep.” By which Aziraphale meant in Crowley’s bed in Crowley’s flat. All the recent attention would be flattering were it not for the fact that Crowley’s hovering felt like he was avoiding something. “You look a bit peaky, my dear.”

That had Crowley glancing up at him, which apparently caused something dreadful to occur to his phone, as he grunted in frustration and shoved it into his pocket. “How d’you mean? We don’t get ‘peaky’.”

“You just seem a tad…” manic, distracted, stressed, “out of sorts.” It wasn’t the first time he had brought it up, but Crowley had so far stubbornly denied any cause for concern. Aziraphale thought of the newest addition to his phone book, tucked away in his papers. Perhaps it was time he sought some advice. This seemed like the sort of problem a witch might be able to clear up.

Crowley swayed to his feet, shoulders inching up towards his ears, and Aziraphale frowned. He turned back to his book in preparation for yet another denial.

“Dunno what you mean, angel. I’m fine. If you wanted some space all you had to do was ask.”

It was impossible to stop the huff he aimed at his book. He wouldn’t mind a little peace and quiet, but that wasn’t the point. How was he supposed to help Crowley if he wouldn’t tell him what was _wrong_? “Must you be so stubborn?”

“It’s my middle name.”

“I thought your middle name was J. Or is the J silent?”

“Yes, alright, I’ll get out of your hair. Need to water my plants anyway.”

“A nap wouldn’t be amiss, my dear,” he called, Crowley already halfway out the door.

Crowley crept into his flat like he was breaking into the place.

Never in his existence had Crowley owned a flat that could be described as cozy or warm or welcoming, but ever since Adam had rebooted reality, his coolly stylish flat had morphed into a frigid lair. It had started with odd noises in the middle of night, dragging Crowley out of bed to find his throne-chair halfway across his office or his cobra statue knocked onto the floor. His appliances, which had always functioned perfectly despite never being plugged in, would turn on and off randomly; his blender would whir to life while he was in the middle of a _Golden Girls_ episode or he’d walk into the kitchen for a drink and find the stovetop elements red hot and sizzling. Sometimes, the settings on his adjustable bed would change themselves. When he’d hired a human to fix it, they couldn’t find anything amiss.

All of that he could have ignored were it not for the feeling of eyes boring into the back of his head. Demons had a certain intuition for things like that. Things like the sensation of being slowly picked apart, his insides inspected for the slowest, bloodiest, most gruesome destruction. It was as if Hastur had overcome centuries of technophobia just to install secret security cameras in his flat. Crowley had searched; he hadn’t found any.

Besides, they were supposed to be passed all that. Aziraphale’s performance with the holy bathwater had ensured it.

It was _spooky_ and it turned out Crowley wasn’t as much of a fan as he thought.

He’d taken to lurking at the bookshop, driving Aziraphale batty. For the sake of his plants he went back to his place once a week to water them and then scurry out, the hair on the back of his neck tingling. When he wasn’t at the bookshop he’d wander around the city, lurk some more like a proper demon, until he got bored or knew Aziraphale would be getting peckish, and then he’d wander back. It had been working perfectly, except for one problem.

Crowley enjoyed sleeping. He enjoyed it so much it had become habit, so that while he didn’t _need_ to sleep, an overwhelming drowsiness overtook him when he didn’t get a few hours of shuteye every once and awhile.

There was a city infrastructure project he had dabbled in over a decade ago which had involved upgrading public benches with cheaper, nearly identical, but infinitely more uncomfortable benches. It had seemed genius at the time – a subtle yet sure-fire way of ruining people’s moods via sore backsides. The resulting backpain after his recent attempts at public napping made him regret that project nearly as much as the M25.

He’d started nodding off at the bookshop, which was probably rude. Then Aziraphale, being Aziraphale, had deigned to pull his nose out of his books with an unfortunate strike of awareness to point out that Crowley was perhaps a bit _over-tired_.

But what was he supposed to say? That his flat was giving him the heebie-jeebies?

Easing the front door closed, Crowley took a moment to visually scan his flat. The air was still, but heavy, pressing in on him, resisting his very presence. He snapped on the lights. “Hello?” he called, which was just stupid. There was no one here.

Fighting the urge to tiptoe, he made his way through the rooms, eyes flicking about behind his sunglasses. Nothing looked out of place, but he would swear the temperature was dropping, sending a shudder rippling down his spine. Pasting a determined scowl onto his face and a sway to his hips, he made his way to the greenroom, ignoring the way shadows seemed to flicker in the corners of his eyes, reaching for him. His steps quickened, muscles tense to avoid flinching.

The thought had occurred that he could sell his flat and move somewhere else, but that would be admitting there was a problem. Which there wasn’t.

“What’s a little misfiring of occult energy to me, eh?” He coughed, possibly choking on the sarcasm. “I’m the demon who betrayed Satan and stopped the apocalypse, I’m not afraid of – of –”

There was an odd rustling sound coming from the greenroom. Like television static, it buzzed in Crowley’s molars and burrowed into the base of his skull. Teeth clenched, breath trapped in his lungs, he paused on the other side of the revolving door. With one hand he reached out, listening closely. It was the wriggling of maggots in the undergrowth, the low drone of swarming flies, the rasping of a prisoner’s clothes. He eased the door open and crept in.

All the plants were shaking.

As a general rule, Crowley’s plants were very well trained. They knew to maintain their poise at least long enough for Crowley to do the usual inspection. He hadn’t even threatened them yet. There were leaves dotting the floor, as if they’d been shivering for days.

His scowl deepened, temper flaring with his fear, his ridiculous imaginings. “What’s gotten into—”

A rubber fig, quaking in a heavy ceramic pot, lifted off the ground as if plucked by an invisible giant. It flew through the air. 

Crowley ducked, his shoulder colliding hard with the door as a leaf sliced by his cheek. He fell, sunglasses clattering to the ground, the sound of smashing pottery and plant abuse echoing from his office.

Breathing heavily, shoulder smarting, eyes very wide and very yellow, Crowley peeked out the door at the violent remains of soil and greenery and ceramic shards smeared across his office floor. The plants continued to shake and Crowley scrambled to his feet, watching them warily. His cheek tingled where it had been brushed by a murderous leaf. 

His plants had never tried to kill him before.

If Crowley had managed to stand up against Hell, what was to say his plants couldn’t do the same?

This was no time to show weakness. He had to double down, show them who was boss, put them back in their place.

In the moonlight trickling through the window, the plants cast long, dancing shadows on the ground, as if they were laughing. From the office, the rubber fig rustled, probably readying for another go at his head. There was a scraping noise, pottery against concrete, and the spider plant jerked and Crowley needed to – he needed to –

He needed Aziraphale.

“This is not over!” he hissed, but his voice was weak and thin and he fled without a backwards glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🌳🔪
> 
> Your comments/kudos fuel me. I'm on [Tumblr](https://notesoflore.tumblr.com/) too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An eye for an eye and a root for a root. Crowley had a plan: herbicide. If only Aziraphale would let him.

It was less than two chapters of his book later that Aziraphale’s reading was once again interrupted, this time by Crowley slamming into his flat instead of out of it.

“I need all your books on herbicide,” Crowley announced, disappearing between his bookshelves. “And on evil plants, if you’ve got ‘em.”

The bell above the door was still protesting its violent attack. Aziraphale blinked at it, blinked down at his book, and stood, straightening his waistcoat as he drifted towards the sounds of heated muttering. He paused at the end of the bookshelves where Crowley was skimming titles furiously. His hair was a wreck. His sunglasses were missing.

It was this last fact that made Aziraphale step closer in alarm. “What on earth for?”

“Need to kill my plants.” Crowley’s fingertips froze on a book’s spine. His brow furrowed as he scanned the shelf, then he glanced at Aziraphale in confusion. “What’s your organization method? Never mind.” He pulled out the book.

“ _Actually_ kill them? And what, pray tell, is wrong with your garbage disposal trick?”

Aziraphale had found out about Crowley’s unfortunate tendency to terrorize his unruly plants the day after their lunch at the Ritz, when Crowley had turned up with a bouquet of cheerful flowers.

“To celebrate,” he’d explained, passing the bouquet with studied casualness. “The world not ending.”

There had been yellow sunflowers and daffodils dotted with red tulips, a sunrise of petals, and Aziraphale had felt a trickling of dismay. “They’re beautiful.”

His tone had caught Crowley’s attention. He’d gone very still. “You don’t like them?”

“Oh, no, I do! Thank you, my dear, they’re perfectly lovely.” And they’d survive only a few days under Aziraphale’s dubious care. He’d forget to water them, or he’d water them too much, and Crowley would be terribly offended. “I supposed I need a vase. Should they go in the windowsill? I'm afraid I don’t know much about plants.”

Crowley had relaxed and flashed a grin. “I know. You were a terrible gardener for years; it’s a miracle the Dowlings didn’t fire you.”

“I was no worse a gardener than you were a nanny.”

Crowley had pointed at him. “I was a great nanny and you know it.” Aziraphale had opened his mouth, but Crowley continued before they could descend into that old argument. “But you don’t have to worry about maintenance because I threatened them earlier. They’ll be perky for two weeks at least.”

“Threatened them?”

“It’s amazing how obedient they get when they know the garbage disposal is waiting for them.”

“Oh, my. You don’t actually shred your plants, do you?”

“Yes,” Crowley had said in the slow tone that said ‘don’t blow my cover’. He’d looked meaningfully at the flowers tucked protectively against Aziraphale’s chest. “Of course I do.”

Plants didn’t have ears, Aziraphale was fairly certain. He’d gone along with it nonetheless. Insisting that Crowley ought to give positive reinforcement a try had seemed rude given the circumstances.

He’d ferreted out his small collection of floriography books the first chance he’d gotten, his smile growing with each entry he read. Loyalty, rebirth, love.

The flowers were thriving still, several weeks later, hidden away in Aziraphale’s back room for his enjoyment alone. It wouldn’t do to make his shop too inviting, after all.

“No, no, no, no.” Crowley’s head swiveled minutely as he skimmed the text, turning pages quickly but carefully. It was the most Aziraphale had seen him read since – well, ever. “The garburator’s too good for them.”

“Slow down, Crowley.” Aziraphale plucked the book from his hands. “What was their offence?”

Crowley’s arms dropped to his sides, fingers like claws against his jeans. He took a deep breath. “They tried to kill me.”

“I’m sorry, your plants did?” Aziraphale had met his plants, which were a smidge more sentient than your typical flora, but he hadn’t found them to be overly murderous.

“Yes,” he growled, stepping closer, and Aziraphale felt a little thrill. “I nearly got brained by a pot.”

Fingers tapping on the antique but mundane horticulture book, Aziraphale’s eyes flicked between Crowley’s. It was so rare he got to actually see anything other than his own reflection when they were this close. Crowley’s eyes read sincere – certainly Crowley believed what he was saying – so Aziraphale licked his lips and nodded.

“Perhaps you ought to show me.”

The lines at the corners of Crowley’s eyes softened. “You sure?”

Breaking eye contact, a touch breathless, Aziraphale shimmied by him to return the book to its spot. He was very aware of Crowley’s presence, practically vibrating behind him. “Certainly. I can’t make a proper book recommendation otherwise.”

“Your book recommendations are rubbish,” Crowley scoffed, but he led the way out to the Bentley without protest, manifesting a new pair of sunglasses. “Else people would be buying them all the time.”

The moment they stepped into the flat Aziraphale knew something was horribly wrong.

He’d had an inkling out in the hall already, of some terrible dark presence, but it wasn’t until he stepped into the entrance that it swept over him, thick and oily and _angry_.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale breathed, but he could sense none of Her light here.

Crowley stayed close behind him, practically breathing down his neck. “What? What?”

“It’s – it’s so _evil_. Can’t you feel it?”

“Sure, I live here.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “No, I know what _you_ feel like.”

The same way Crowley knew what Aziraphale smelled like, apparently.

The flat felt different from the night he’d spent here, pretending to be Crowley. The first thing he’d done, upon Crowley’s warning, was clean up the sodden, still-sizzling heap of Ligur’s clothes. He’d insisted that Crowley hunker down at the bookshop and not even think of trying to assist him, fighting back tears at the sight of what Crowley could have become. Then, Aziraphale had wandered through the rooms, taking in the spartan décor and gloomy interior design. Nearly vibrating with nerves over what they were about to attempt, it had been comforting to sit in Crowley’s office chair, or lie on his immense bed, or stand amongst his luxurious plants, and to feel Crowley’s essence, all amused mischief and sarcastic glee, infused into every room.

This, this permeating malice and noxious fury, this was nothing like that.

“Something is here,” he whispered, his hand twitching, aching to hold another.

Crowley turned on the lights, but it did nothing to dispel the dread that pooled in their stomachs as they stepped deeper into the flat. A battered rubber fig plant lay shivering on the office floor, abandoned in the remains of its pot, and Aziraphale clucked at the sight before stepping into the greenroom.

With an incomprehensible exclamation, Crowley surged in front of him. He managed to wrangle his tongue to hiss, “If any of you so much as twitches a _leaf_ at Aziraphale—”

The air was chilled and too still, but Aziraphale’s heart warmed. He laid a tentative hand on Crowley’s arm. “It’s alright, dear.” He took in the petrified plants. To them he asked, “You won’t try anything, will you? Look, Crowley, the poor things are terrified.”

“They’re ungrateful weeds, is what they are, and I will not stand for –”

There was a loud bang from the office. They both yelped, Crowley clutching Aziraphale’s arm, and whirled to find the office chair thrown onto its back, crushing the rubber fig into the floor.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale squeezed the bony hand that was a vise on his upper arm. “It’s not the plants.”

“Then what _is_ it? Ghosts?” he scoffed.

Aziraphale just looked at him.

“Oh, come on.” He looked like he wanted to stalk away from Aziraphale, but couldn’t bear to release his grip. “Death doesn’t let spirits just hang around after he gets his skeletal claws into them. You know that.”

“Have you got any other ideas? Before - before everything that happened, there were many things that I thought I knew and about which I ended up being terribly wrong. Is it so hard to believe that perhaps there’s something going on here that we _don’t_ know?”

Crowley went very still, eyes widening. Aziraphale hesitated, then made a decision. He removed Crowley’s hand from his arm only to clasp it in both of his instead. Crowley’s throat moved as he swallowed.

The world was not how it had been. Aziraphale didn’t know what that meant, but he wasn’t about to let Crowley muddle through it on his own. Not this time. “What if something has changed?”

They drove back to the bookshop because every time they tried to speak the garbage disposal would grind, an argumentative interloper. For once, Crowley went barely twenty over the limit, too distracted to miracle reality out of the Bentley’s way. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

“So, we get your books, and then what? I’ve never done an exorcism before.”

Aziraphale clutched his hands in his lap. “I have, though it wasn’t nearly as nasty as this one.”

Crowley glanced at him, chest tightening at his tone. “Should we get help? Maybe that lady, you know, the one with the dress, the one you—”

“Oh, dear Madame Tracy doesn’t have any, ah, _actual_ experience with the supernatural, aside from my little visit. Her séances are more for show. Although, now that you mention it, perhaps that Anathema could be of some assistance.”

Thoughts of flying bikes and charred prophecies came to Crowley’s mind. “Book girl?”

Aziraphale nodded thoughtfully, remembering prophecy four thousand-something, about the Angel meeting Anathema after the end. “Thank goodness I wrote down her telephone number.” He felt a little thrill; another one of Agnes Nutter’s divinations, coming true, though not for the reason he’d thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👻


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have a Moment, call in some reinforcements, and make a discovery.

There was a very old, very heavy, handmade chest locked and hidden in the back room, that Aziraphale hadn’t touched in decades. It contained the type of literature too dangerous to fall back into mortal hands. Aziraphale had lost its key.

“I’m sure it’s around here somewhere,” he muttered, peeking under books and in his collection of snuffboxes.

Crowley watched him putter about and sighed. “I’ll just give the witch a call, shall I?” He doubted she would be eager speak with the guy whose car she’d hit, especially if she still felt a bit guilty.

By this point it was either very late or very early, so it was a muzzy-sounding and distinctly annoyed Anathema who answered the phone. She perked up once Crowley had explained the situation, sleep and suspicion chased away by professional curiosity.

“A real haunting, huh? I can be there tomorrow evening. Or today, I guess. What’s the address?”

With that out of the way, Crowley resumed the search for the chest’s key. They could have broken the lock, or miracled it open, but Aziraphale would be opposed on principle and Crowley wasn’t in any rush. Instead, they searched together, Aziraphale methodical, Crowley checking any spot that occurred to him at random.

It was after nearly forty minutes of silent hunting that Crowley detected an odd tension to the quiet between them. Perhaps it was the way Aziraphale would steal glances at him and then refuse to make eye contact whenever Crowley turned his way.

When removing the couch cushions didn’t reveal the key, Crowley took a break to eye his mulishly silent friend. “What is it?” he asked at last.

Aziraphale was busy checking his desk drawers for the second time. “Hm?”

“Look, whatever I said, I’m sorry, alright? What’s wrong?”

A drawer was slid shut with slightly too much force. Aziraphale glanced at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The I’m-annoyed-with-you-but-won’t-say-anything-because-I’m-above-that-sort-of-thing look.”

Aziraphale abandoned the search entirely to stare at him, offended. “I don’t have a look like that.”

“You do. You were just making it.” Crowley held out his palms. “What’d I do?”

Aziraphale clasped his hands, looked away, seemed to come to some decision. “You could have said something sooner.”

“Eh?”

“Well, I don’t see what all the secrecy is about. You could have told me your flat had an occult infestation. It seems like the sort of thing best friends tell each other. Obviously, it’s been a problem for weeks; why else would you be spending so much time here, when you don’t even read books.”

It took a moment for Crowley to follow Aziraphale’s train of thought, but the increasingly crushed look on his face spurred him into action like a jab to the kidneys.

“And the napping! I should have known—”

He jerked to a stop in front of Aziraphale and, remembering that moment in his flat and the feel of Aziraphale’s hands on his, and covered Aziraphale’s twisting fingers. The shock of it shut Aziraphale up.

“I wasn’t just spending time here to get away from my flat, angel. I mean, I could have gone anywhere to do that.” At Aziraphale’s frown, Crowley realized how that sounded. “No, I mean, I _like_ being here, with you. Favourite place to be.”

The hesitant smile that broke across Aziraphale’s face was brighter than the first rays of sun peeking through the bookshop windows. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” Crowley managed, feeling a bit dazzled. “My favourite place is wherever you are.”

Aziraphale seemed ready to melt, but Crowley felt like a puddle already, shapeless and motionless with potential. Expectation hung in the air between them and Crowley realized this was one of those moments, one of those Correct Moments like in the movies where the music swells and the humans kiss, but there was no music here, just the too-loud beating of his heart and the incessant traffic outside, and the pressure was too much, so instead of leaning in he panicked and blurted, “Missed my bed, though.”

And just like that, the Moment was shattered. Aziraphale blinked at him. “Oh?”

Crowley pulled his hands away to gesture awkwardly at the couch. “Your cushions have no back support.”

Though still a little pink in the cheeks, Aziraphale recovered much quicker than Crowley. “Well, it’s not meant for sleeping.” He returned to shuffling through the papers on his desk. “Fear not, we’ll have your ghost problem solved in a jiffy and then your bed will be yours again.”

With Aziraphale’s back turned, Crowley took a moment to squeeze his eyes shut. He’d utterly bungled that. Taking a deep breath, he wandered over to look in Aziraphale’s cutlery drawer. “You know, I could just sell the place and the problem would be solved.”

“It wouldn’t be solved, it would just be handed off to some poor, undeserving human.”

“What if I sold it to a politician?”

They continued their search, grumbling amicably, until Aziraphale made a triumphant sound and came to stand in front of him.

“You find it?”

“Crowley, dear, I think I see something behind your ear. My, what’s this?”

“What? No, don’t—”

With a smile that was so close to shit-eating Crowley could almost smell it, Aziraphale reached by his ear as if plucking something from the air there. With a ridiculous _woosh_ ing sound, he pulled back his hand and presented the key with much flourish and fanfare.

Crowley eyed it, unamused.

“Ta da!”

“Very funny. Where was it, really?”

Aziraphale looked at him as if concerned for his intelligence. “Why, behind your ear, I just said!”

“I hope you used real magic to find it.”

“A magician never reveals his secret.” Then, of all things, Aziraphale _winked_ at him.

Mouth agape, Crowley watched dumbly as Aziraphale went to unlock the chest. The air escaped his lungs with a sound that was half amused, half resigned, and entirely fond. Bless it all, he was in love with this idiot. 

The chest contained a small stack of books that looked like they belonged in a museum. The majority of Aziraphale’s books did, but these ones were especially museum-y. Aziraphale made Crowley put on gloves before he could touch them.

Most of them were in languages Crowley either didn’t recognize or didn’t remember, but a couple were in old English, so these were the ones Crowley cracked open.

After about twenty minutes of reading, Crowley grimaced at the page he was on. This kind of thing was really not his area of competence. “How are instructions for exorcising children supposed to help us? I really hope there isn’t a possessed toddler in my walls.”

“Wrong chapter, dear. Try the one on possessed places, not people.”

He began flipping pages irritably. “These kinds of books never have indexes,” he complained. “You sure any of these really work?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, I used an incantation from one of these books to exorcise a poor young woman back in the 1340s. Can’t recall which one, though.”

“Awful century,” Crowley grumbled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, you were in such a dreadful mood those years and it wasn’t all that memorable, to be honest. I think it was the demon’s first time.” He peeked up at Crowley then over his little round spectacles. “Plus, it was one of your colleagues, which seemed a bit awkward. I suppose I didn’t want you to think differently of me.”

“’Course I wouldn’t,” Crowley dismissed, finding the correct chapter at last. “They probably deserved it. Besides, it’s not like demons actually care about each other.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed quietly, “I suppose not.”

Eventually Crowley came to a passage that made his eyes water to look at. He imagined this was how humans felt when they cut onions. He sniffled and held the book in Aziraphale’s direction. “I think I found what we’re looking for.”

Once they’d gathered their supplies, they stopped by a café for an early dinner before heading back to Mayfair to meet Anathema.

“What kind of monstrosity…” Crowley breathed, rolling to a stop behind a blue, three-wheeled automobile with the words _Dick Turpin_ on the back.

“Her young man must have come, too.”

Newt and Anathema got out to share somewhat stilted greetings, Crowley too busy gawking at the car and Newt too busy hoping Crowley would ask about the car’s name.

“We really do appreciate your coming,” Aziraphale oozed as they made their way up to the flat. “It’s quite a pickle Crowley’s found himself in.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Anathema said, politely declining Aziraphale’s offer to take her bag. She wore a plaid coat that was both stylish and functional and an expression that shone with professional enthusiasm. “As a Practical Occultist I’ve read every book I could get my hands on about hauntings, but I’ve never had the opportunity to experience one in person. You’re sure this is the real thing?”

“Very sure.”

“Like there’s an _actual_ ghost in your flat?” Newt asked, equally sceptical and concerned.

Aziraphale blinked at him, wondering what his role was here. As far as he could tell, the young man had no affinity for the occult.

“Yup,” Crowley said blandly, leading the way down the hall. “Oh, and I should warn you,” he said to the humans, pausing with his hand on the door, “you may feel dizzy when you enter. I did a bit of space manipulation when I moved in, so it’s bigger than it looks from the outside.”

“Is that a _Doctor Who_ joke?” Newt muttered to Anathema, following Crowley inside.

When the four of them stepped into the flat, the pervasive, bone-chilling Evil crashed over them like an arctic wave.

“Oh,” Anathema breathed, coming to a standstill in the entrance hall. “Whatever it is, it’s furious.”

She put a hand to her head while Newt looked a little green. Aziraphale sympathized; it felt like every hair on his body was standing on end, his holy essence vibrating in protest. There was an odd high-pitched whine coming from somewhere in the flat that was grating to the ears.

“I can’t believe you let it get this bad,” Aziraphale complained to Crowley, who was looking around like he expected something to jump out at him.

“Hey, I didn’t actually know what the problem was until you figured it out. I’ve never been haunted before.”

Anathema was inching deeper into the flat with her lips pressed together. “It feels like a horror movie in here.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley said dully, “demons are supposed to like horror movies.”

Feeling a tad guilty for snapping at him, Aziraphale reached out to briefly squeeze his forearm. “Old habits, my dear.” Seeing Newt’s pale face, he had sudden misgivings about bringing them here. Humans were just so vulnerable. “Perhaps we should do this without them.”

“No way,” Anathema said, putting her bag down on the floor and crouching to rummage through it. “I may not be a Professional Descendent anymore, but I know Evil when I feel it and if I can help, then I will.”

“And I’m not letting my girlfriend do something dangerous on her own,” Newt concluded, placing a hand on her shoulder. She smiled up at him with open affection.

With a sigh, Aziraphale relented. Oh, young love. Perhaps it was foolish, but Aziraphale knew how Newt felt. It was why he was so frustrated that Crowley hadn’t come to him for help earlier. What if something dreadful had happened to him and Aziraphale hadn’t even known?

“What’s that noise?” Anathema asked, and they all paused to listen to the high electrical drone.

“Sounds like an old answering machine,” Newt said. “I can take care of that.”

Anathema watched him amble to the office, then grimaced at Crowley. “He’s probably going to break it.”

Ever since Aziraphale had been discoporated thanks to Mr. Shadwell, he’d found himself ruminating on the thought of how unbearable it would have been if his and Crowley’s situations had been reversed. Imagining the Crowley’s destruction at the hands of Hell had been a common pastime ever since the start of their Arrangement, but to think, if Aziraphale had been the one to arrive at Crowley’s flat and find it in flames, those dreadful dukes Hastur and Ligur cackling with demonic glee—

Hold on.

A chill trickled down Aziraphale’s spine. Crowley was watching Anathema set up some sort of witching device, a golden sphere that dangled from a cord. Though Anathema’s hand was still, the sphere swung like a pendulum. “Crowley, I know who—”

From the other room, the high drone spiked into a wail. The golden sphere jerked as if pulled by a magnet and Anathema jumped to her feet, dashing into the office with Aziraphale and Crowley on her heels.

Behind the desk, Newt held the answering machine in both hands, staring at it with wide eyes. The wailing intensified, pitch fluctuating wildly as overtones and a rumbling static crackled through the speakers. It sounded like a guillotine slicing through flesh and bones cracking under the force of a roaring waterfall and a hundred screaming babies rolled into one, and under it all, came a rasping, “ _Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, you’re toast, Crowley, you snake, gonna kill you, Crowley, CROWLEY, CROWLEY—”_

Newt dropped the answering machine and jumped back. It shattered on the floor. Crowley jerked a hand and the remaining pieces dissolved into a puddle of melted plastic and metal and cassette tape.

Breathing hard, Newt looked between them. “What the hell was that?”

Crowley and Aziraphale shared a wide-eyed look. Crowley was very pale when he said, “That – was Ligur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh ho ho who could have foreseen that


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel and a witch exorcise a demon's flat. Ligur's not pleased about it.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Crowley exclaimed, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed. “I dumped him in holy water, he was destroyed! Demons don’t come back from that!”

Aziraphale paced between the office and the greenroom, hunched over his book. Newt, too petrified to touch any more haunted technology, sat in the throne-chair watching Anathema light candles around the room. They made Crowley’s nose itch.

“There’s no, I dunno, afterlife for demons?” Newt wondered. “Demons don’t have souls?”

Crowley glared. “What kind of stupid question is that, do demons have souls? ‘Course not, we’re _demons_.” Humans had their fragile bodies, which lasted for a handful of decades, and when they expired their Immortal Soul got a one-way trip Up or Down. For angels and demons, the corporations were just transport, really. They were already immortal, and very tough to kill, but when you did, there wasn’t any backup immortal soul. What you had was what you got. When you were immortal, an afterlife was superfluous. “For the record, angels don’t either.”

Newt just blinked at him, then at Aziraphale, brow furrowed. “So, if you two die…”

Crowley flashed him a cold smile to hide the way his heart was clenching painfully. “That’s it. Don’t get any ideas.”

“Or is it?” Aziraphale stood amidst the plants, gaze distant. “What if something’s changed?”

“Like what?”

“You guys—” Anathema said.

Aziraphale’s eyes met Crowley’s. Around him, the plants began shivering again. “What if Adam, oh, I don’t know—”

“Guys! The spirit – Ligur – he’s getting stronger!”

The candles sputtered and died; Anathema’s gold sphere went deadly still. Crowley pushed off the desk, fists clenched, head swivelling. “Piss off, you homicidal lizard!” The television flicked on, the screen filled with static, and the volume crept up and up on its own until the room was filled with spitting and crackling.

“Oh, we’ve delayed too much already,” Aziraphale fretted. “Enough is enough.” He began to read.

It wasn’t Latin, but it was some equally dead language, unexpected consonants and odd vowels tripping off Aziraphale’s tongue. Anathema relit the candles and Crowley’s head began to pound.

The television static sounded less like static now and more like hissing. The harder Crowley tried to tune it out, the more his brain tried to shape the crackling rush into words, driving him mad wondering if he was making it all up himself.

_Shhhh…Crowley_ … _shhhsnake_ … _killed me_ …

“You were going to kill me first!”

Sparks erupted from the television and the flat shook like a small bomb had gone off. The humans cried out and grabbed onto each other for balance, then cried out again at a loud crack. The _Mona Lisa_ sketch had slammed open on its hinges, fracturing the frame against the wall. The greenroom door spun closed, cutting off Aziraphale from view.

“Angel!” Crowley shoved against the door, slammed his hand against the thick concrete. Something shattered on the other side. “Angel! Open the door!”

“ _I can’t, Crowley._ ” Aziraphale’s voice was muffled and high with stress. Crowley slammed his shoulder into the door, pain flaring in his bones. He couldn’t see Aziraphale, anything could be happening to him, every passing second squeezing his chest tighter with panic. “ _I’m fine, I’ll finish the incantation in here. Get the humans out!_ ”

“No!” Crowley slammed into the door again. His sunglasses clattered to the floor. “I’m not leaving you!”

A hand touched Crowley’s shoulder but he shook it off, eyes searching frantically for a way through. “Ligur, you bastard, I’ll revive your discorporated arse and this time I’ll make you _drink_ a bucket of holy water, don’t think I won’t!”

Aziraphale was chanting again, nearly shouting over the cacophony of all of Crowley’s appliances whirring and grinding and beeping angrily. Some of the words were of the Holy Language, words that made Crowley want to claw at his ears. Anathema joined in with her own determined chanting.

Forehead pressed to the door, Crowley realized he really didn’t feel well. Pain lanced though his chest and he collapsed to his knees with a groan. In the corner of the room, something toppled onto the floor, the sound reverberating through Crowley’s scrambled brain. He was pretty sure Ligur was screeching through the television.

“What’s happening to him?”

It felt like his corporation was coming apart. The fabric of his jacket tore as his wings emerged onto the earthly plane, his eyes swam with yellow, his skin itched and burned.

“ _Crowley, dear? Oh, please get him out of here!”_

Hands were on his shoulders, then under his arms, dragging him away, away from Aziraphale. “No, ssstop!” But his words were slurred and his thrashing was weak, his mind muzzy and aching with instinctive panic. Everything blurred sharply.

When his eyes regained focus, it was the sight of his own front door that met him. His ears were ringing. There was movement at the corner of his vision and Crowley forced his bowling-ball-heavy head to twist in that direction.

Newt was sprawled beside him in the hallway, panting and staring at him with wide eyes. Crowley glanced at his hands to find his fingers tipped with claws. He could feel his wings bent awkwardly beneath him and he was pretty sure he no longer had proper skin. With some effort, he reverted to his favourite shape, watching until his nails were blunted and human again.

“Probably wasn’t the best idea,” Newt gasped, “keeping you around during an exorcism.”

Struggling to his feet, Crowley swayed, feeling top heavy. He managed to turn the motion into a lunge for the front door. “Aziraphale’s still in there—”

“Wait! Just – hold on—” Newt blocked his way to the door, arms spread. “If you go in there, I don’t know what’ll happen to you, but I don’t think it’ll be pretty.”

Crowley growled and glared at him with his yellow slitted eyes. He felt a spark of satisfaction when Newt visibly blanched. “What happened to not letting Anathema do anything dangerous without you?”

Newt swallowed and glanced to the side before bravely meeting his eyes again. “Sometimes, the best thing to do for your loved ones is making sure _you’re_ okay.”

For a long moment, Crowley stood trembling in front of this human who was barely more than a child and would be dead in less time than Crowley could nap. “It doesn’t matter if I’m okay if _he’s_ not.”

“They’ll be fine,” he said with forced confidence. “Anathema knows what she’s—”

Everything went quiet.

The clunks and crashes from inside the flat stopped, and the miasma of Evil that had been leaking out from under the door dissipated. They both looked at the door, then each other, and then Crowley was pushing Newt aside and rushing back in.

“Aziraphale!”

“Anathema!”

The flat was a disaster. Nearly everything Crowley owned was tipped onto the floor. Acidic smoke filled the air, but Crowley just stopped breathing, not pausing for anything.

Anathema was sitting on the floor with her back against the side of the desk, her hair a wreck but otherwise fine. Newt knelt at her side just as Crowley barged into the greenroom, the door swinging open easily this time. The moment he stumbled inside, he yelped and had to shield his eyes.

Aziraphale was _glowing_.

His wings were out and he was breathing heavily and every inch of skin was shining like the sun. Or, more aptly, like his corporation was struggling to contain Aziraphale’s true form. The plants strained towards his warmth. They’d all sprouted flowers, even the non-flowering types.

“ **He’s gone, Crowley**.”

Even his voice was Holy, musical overtones that hurt Crowley’s ears and were probably shredding Aziraphale’ vocal cords.

“ _Angel_ ,” he complained, ducking his head.

“ **Ah, sor** ry, dear. Got a bit carried away.”

The light dimmed and the overtones faded and there was Aziraphale, pale and unassuming, smiling sheepishly in the wreck of Crowley’s garden. He took Crowley’s breath away, or maybe that was the smoke. Not that it mattered. Crowley knew what he had to do, what he’d wanted to do the moment he’d seen Aziraphale alive and well on that airbase, what he should have done the second the world hadn’t ended, what he’d nearly done in the bookshop earlier that day. He strode forward and took Aziraphale’s precious face in his hands, found Aziraphale’s eyes wide with surprise and hope.

Then Aziraphale clutched his lapels and pulled and they were kissing, lips sharp-sweet with relief and joy and love and love and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam gives some insight and Ligur is a persistent bastard.

By the time they pulled apart, Aziraphale’s wings were tucked away and his cheeks were pink. “I see why you’ve enjoyed coming to my rescue so many times over the years.” He pushed a strand of hair from Crowley’s eyes, fingertips caressing his temple. Crowley thought he might shake apart under that delicate touch. “I quite liked being able to save you for once.”

It took several moments of Crowley working his jaw before his mouth could manage word sounds. It was one thing for Crowley to have a mild knight-in-shining-armor complex (although in his case it was more of a sleek-seductive-badass-hero complex). It was quite another for Aziraphale to recognize it. “Ngh, I – you kept getting into trouble.”

Aziraphale hummed and smoothed Crowley’s lapels. “That’s true, I did rather get into a lot a trouble, didn’t I? Of course, every time I got to see you.” He looked up, eyelashes fluttering, which addled Crowley’s brain like he’d taken a blow to the head. Or like he’d recently been nearly exorcised, which he had.

Once everyone was reassured that everyone was alright, Crowley poured each of them a generous glass of scotch.

“That was one of the craziest things I’ve ever done,” Anathema said, coughing delicately around her drink. “Second to saving the world, though.”

Newt took her hand. “I can’t believe you exorcised a demon from a demon’s flat. Well, I can, because you’re amazing, but still.”

Anathema smiled and pressed a kiss to Newt’s fingers. “Couldn’t have done it without you. You saved a demon from being exorcised, after all.”

“I really can’t thank you enough for that,” Aziraphale said, shifting closer so that he and Crowley were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch. “Deep down, Crowley’s quite a nice demon, really.”

“Yes, yes, thank you and shut up,” Crowley grumbled, not moving away an iota.

Anathema and Newt insisted they help clean up, ignoring Crowley’s insistence that he could just miracle everything back to rights.

“Sometimes it’s the process that’s important,” Anathema said, packing up her book of potions. “Plus, I think you should call Adam and I want to know what he has to say.”

So, Crowley dialed the Antichrist and put him on speakerphone.

“ _You didn’t have to tell my parents you were my teacher_ ,” Adam complained, “ _now they’re gonna think I’m in trouble_.”

“You are in trouble,” Crowley growled.

“Adam,” Aziraphale interjected, patting Crowley’s hand, “when you…reset the world, did you happen to, um, _revive_ a certain demon by the name of Ligur?”

“ _Nah. I only brought back humans who’d died, and only the ones who’d died from the actual ‘pocalypse stuff – the big fire ring ‘n’ raining fish ‘n’ the kraken ‘n’ stuff. Why?”_

“Well, hm. Because it seems he’s not quite dead.”

“He was haunting my flat,” Crowley said.

“ _He sounds pretty dead to me then_.”

“He died by holy water, Adam, demons don’t come back from that. He should have been obliterated.”

“ _Hold on. You mean you guys don’t have souls?”_

Newt gesticulated wildly, as if to say, _See? Not just me!_

“ _Oops_.”

“Oops?” Crowley hissed, his blood pressure spiking. He never wanted to hear the Antichrist say ‘oops’ again.

“ _I thought everyone had souls, even angels and demons_.”

“So, when you rebooted reality…” Aziraphale prompted. “Oh, my.”

“ _Yeah, guess you all have souls now. Congratulations?_ ”

While Crowley and Aziraphale stared at each other, trying to process what this meant, Newt asked, “Where do they go, then? When they die?”

“ _Wherever they’re supposed to, I guess. Maybe back where they came from. Maybe somewhere else. Maybe nowhere. I reckon Ligur was haunting you ‘cause you’ve got unfinished business, Mr. Crowley.”_

“Where is he _now_ , then, I wonder,” Aziraphale murmured.

They left Adam to the mercy of his parents. Anathema packed up her bag and Newt wandered through the greenroom, righting plants that had tipped over, while the angel and the demon were busy sipping their scotch and reconsidering what they knew about the world. Then Crowley’s phone rang.

Crowley looked at his screen in confusion. “It’s Shadwell.” He answered it, his ear immediately bombarded with a panicked mostly-Scottish accent.

“ _Oh, Mr. Crowley, ye’ve got to help me!_ ”

“What seems to be the problem, Sergeant Shadwell?” Aziraphale frowned at him, but Crowley shook his head and shrugged.

“ _It’s ma wumman, Marjorie – Madame Tracy – she was doing one of her séances, fer old time’s sake, and I heard screaming an’ everyone was running out so I went in and she attacked me!_ ”

The doorbell rang. Probably a neighbour come to complain about all the racket. Crowley sighed, preparing to hang up on Shadwell, but Aziraphale waved a hand at him. “I’ll get it,” he mouthed.

“Sergeant Shadwell, relationship advice is really not my—”

“ _Listen, Your Honour, she threw me across the room! I hit my head and when I came to, she was gone. Ye’ve got to help me find her. She’s possessed!”_

Aziraphale was opening the door and stepping back to permit their visitor.

Madame Tracy.

Crowley felt his heart stop. Since he wasn’t human, it was actually possible for his heart to stop without killing him. It was an extremely unpleasant sensation. He dropped the phone.

Aziraphale was very clever, but he was a very specific type of clever. His brand of intelligence was thorough and methodical, focused to the point of forgetting all else. He could pick up and examine a hundred pieces of evidence and place them down like puzzle pieces to form a picture. He could recall literary passages like he’d written them himself, pick up languages with frightening ease, and figure out what had happened to the baby Antichrist on a night he hadn’t been present for over a decade later.

Crowley’s brand of clever was very different. Details and craftsmanship were overlooked for the sake of efficiency and the Big Picture, which meant he was less skilled with fiddly puzzle pieces, but had an affinity for organizing all the puzzle _boxes_. He had little patience for most books, but he could compose poetic trite on the spot just as easily as a conman’s pitch. Put him in the centre of a crowd and Crowley could pick out who was doing what and with who and why.

All this to say that when Aziraphale opened the door, ushering in Madame Tracy with a harried smile, Aziraphale was too busy working through the details – that Madame Tracy wasn’t smiling, that her hands were behind her back, that her posture wasn’t quite right, that her expression was an unnatural combination of rage and terror – to react with that gut instinct that Crowley had.

That gut instinct screamed _NO_. Even as he moved, he knew he wouldn’t be fast enough.

“Angel!”

There was a glint of metal as Madame Tracy’s fist flew towards Aziraphale’s chest, then, as if glancing off a wall, buried itself in his stomach instead. Aziraphale exhaled a loud ‘ _oof’_ , his back hitting the wall. Crowley was already lunging, but then Madame Tracy dodged, faster than should have been possible, and Crowley tripped to the floor. He twisted to get on his back just as she landed on him, teeth bared and eyes wild. Her irises kept shifting colours.

“You’re _toast_ and it’s gonna _hurt_ ,” she snarled with Ligur’s voice, and there was a bloody knife at Crowley’s throat.

A shadow fell over them. There was less than a second to process the sight of Newt, holding up one of Crowley’s statuettes – the _Demon Conquering the Angel_ one, the tip of the angel’s wing broken off – before it came swinging down to smash Madame Tracy over the head.

She went limp, the knife clattering to the ground. Crowley rolled her off and sat up, his mind blank and his guts roiling with terror.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod,” Newt was whining, “are you okay? There’s blood.”

It wasn’t Crowley’s.

“I can’t believe I just – hey, you’re really pale—”

On hands and knees, Crowley slid to Aziraphale, unable to process what he was seeing. Aziraphale was on the floor, slumped against the hallway wall. His hands were cupped over his abdomen, red spilling between his fingers. Crowley wanted to scream.

He’d been discorporated and was back in Hell, he was sure of it.

“Anathema, I knocked out—ohmygod was he _stabbed_? Ohh, I think I need to sit—”

“Newt!”

Crowley ignored them, his entire brain ablaze with the choked whimpering noises Aziraphale was making. It was the worst thing he had ever heard. He would take a century locked in a cell with the entire Spanish Inquisition to make it stop.

“Not _again_. This time I really won’t be able to get the stain out.”

“You idiot,” Crowley gasped, patting Aziraphale’s face, his shoulders, his chest, hands shaking over his stomach. “What were you thinking? Didn’t you feel the Evil emanating out of her?”

“Well she was never a saint. And I thought that awful Sergeant Shadwell was rubbing off on her.”

“You’re fine, you’re fine now,” Crowley decided, knitting Aziraphale’s flesh back together himself, sorting out the fiddly organs inside. What if it hadn’t been an ordinary kitchen knife? What if the blade had been cursed? “C’mon, lemme see.” He drew away Aziraphale’s hands as gently as he could, taking in his ruined waistcoat with the new hole in it and the smooth skin underneath. There was red, red everywhere, but no gold, nothing that was really Aziraphale. “ _Thank you_ ,” he breathed, and let his head fall to press his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Hesitant as a butterfly’s wings, Aziraphale’s fingers fluttered in Crowley’s hair. Crowley’s eyes hurt. “I’m sorry for frightening you, dear heart. Are you quite alright?”

The tremors eased as Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around him, and Crowley nodded, still clutching at his lapels. At Aziraphale’s urging, Crowley lifted his head for a hesitant kiss, Aziraphale’s lips soft and warm and gentle, his fingers supporting the curve of his jaw.

“Guys, a little help?”

With holiness tingling on his lips, Crowley could bear to stand, tugging the angel with him. Crowley repaired his clothes with a gesture, and Aziraphale smiled shyly, not even half as shaken as Crowley felt. “Thank you, dear.”

Anathema was half-dragging a woozy Newt to Crowley’s couch, where he sat with his head between his knees. Madame Tracy lay on her side on the floor and Aziraphale went to her immediately. Crowley hovered, watching her for the slightest twitch.

“Oh, goodness.”

“Is she okay?” Anathema asked. “What the hell happened?”

“She’ll be alright,” Aziraphale promised, laying a hand on her forehead. “Crowley, get a chair, please. And some rope.”

“Did I fracture her skull?” Newt worried from the couch, voice muffled. “I didn’t know how hard to hit.”

“You did perfectly well, Mr. Pulsifer,” Aziraphale reassured him. “Evidently, our exorcism only expelled Ligur from the flat and he found a way to inhabit our dear Madame Tracy. If not for your quick action, Crowley may have been discorporated quite horribly.”

“You nearly were,” Crowley ground out, dragging over his throne-chair with a white-knuckled grip, imagining it was Ligur’s neck. It didn’t make him feel much better.

They all looked at the unconscious and unthreatening Madame Tracy like she was an unpredictable and particularly lethal jack-in-the-box.

Anathema rubbed Newt’s back and asked what they were all thinking. “How do we get rid of him?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to convince Ligur to leave? Good thing he had an evil sidekick.

They secured Madam Tracy’s wrists to the throne-chair with miracled rope and then the four of them stood in front of her, considering. Newt had picked up the statuette again, just in case Ligur tried something. He kept shifting it in his hands, trying to find the least inappropriate place to hold on. It was difficult.

“What even is this,” he wondered, turning the sculpture around to inspect it from different angles. “An angel and a demon? What are they doing, having—”

“Fighting,” Crowley said firmly. “They’re fighting. And the demon is winning.”

Anathema peeked around Newt’s shoulder. “You sure? Because it really looks like—”

“I’m sure. They’re fighting.”

“I’ve always thought it was rather vulgar, myself—”

“Look, can we focus here? What are we going to do about this?” Crowley waved a hand to encompass the unconscious Madame Tracy. “Can we exorcise her, too?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Perhaps, but I’m afraid Ligur will just jump to the next receptive body. Not as easy as it sounds, but I’d rather avoid the chance.”

“Would more holy water help?” Newt wondered.

“Normally I’d say yes, but with what Adam has done…”

“We need to convince him to leave on his own,” Anathema realized. “Adam mentioned unfinished business.”

“I’m not letting him kill me,” Crowley put in.

“Is there anything else he might want?” Aziraphale began to pace. “Something to make him change his mind…”

“His favourite hobbies include killing and torture. Oh, and killing someone with torture.”

“Delightful,” Anathema said.

“There’s another duke, oh, what’s his name.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers to jog his memory.

Crowley sighed. “Hastur.”

“Yes! He was quite upset at your trial, you know. I think he was rather fond of Ligur.”

“Hastur’s favourite hobbies include cannibalism and pyromania, so you can see how they get along.”

“Perhaps he could help.”

“Help kill me, you mean,” Crowley snapped. “He hates me even more than Ligur.”

“Because you killed his best friend.” Aziraphale held up a hand. “Which you absolutely had to do, but it’s understandable that he’d be upset.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He hates me because he’s jealous of me. He’s always been jealous—"

“Come now, Crowley, you know it’s more than that.” Face stern, Aziraphale stared him down. “No matter how despicable, you can’t honestly believe demons are incapable of caring for each other.”

Crowley could and did believe that. He had to, because not once since he had Fallen had a single demon shown him a shred of kindness. “You saw what they’re like.”

“I did,” Aziraphale conceded and took his hand. “But I also know what they can become.”

Throat tight, Crowley looked down at their hands and sucked on his lip to stop it from quivering. For fuck’s sake, how did Aziraphale do this to him? “Not every demon has you.”

The look Aziraphale gave him was almost unbearably tender. Their eyes caught and held, and Crowley felt himself unspooling.

Anathema cleared her throat awkwardly. “This Hastur sounds like kind of a big deal. If we invite him over what’s to stop him from killing us all and saving his best bud here?”

Aziraphale glanced at her and back at Crowley, expression shifting to one of mild guilt. “Well, there’s such a thing as a summoning circle…”

“Don’t remind me,” Crowley groaned.

On paper, their plan was quite simple. It was decided that Newt would go check on Sergeant Shadwell and Aziraphale would go fetch the prop sword gathering dust in his back room.

“Not that I intend to use it, of course, but some theatrics might help us along.”

Crowley watched him go with no little apprehension. “If you so much as get a scratch—”

“Oh, honestly, we both know the Bentley will be driving me, not the other way around.”

Which left Crowley and Anathema to draw the summoning circle in permanent marker on Crowley’s floor.

“Isn’t salt or chalk more traditional?” Anathema wondered, going over Crowley’s lines to make them thicker.

“We’re summoning a duke of Hell and you want to use something that can be smudged away with a sneeze?”

“Good point.”

Their markers squeaked against the floor.

“Isn’t it terribly difficult to summon a duke of Hell?”

“Nah, Hastur loves it. He likes to eat people when they release him accidentally.”

Anathema made a sound of disgust. “I suppose I should be grateful all you did was hit me with your car.”

_You hit me with your bike_. It was on the tip of his tongue, but professional curiosity or not, this human witch was helping him, even though she really didn’t owe him anything. Crowley stared very hard at the complex symbol he was drawing. “I never apologized for that.”

“You didn’t,” she agreed.

Crowley grit his teeth, finished the symbol. “I’m sorry.”

Anathema was silent for a long moment, letting the awkwardness stew. “Well, I probably should have looked before crossing the road,” she said at last. “So, apology accepted.”

Not that he cared, Crowley thought, even as that persistent twinge of guilt finally unravelled and floated away. He was starting to get the hang of this retired-demon thing.

“You really think this’ll work?”

“Guess we’ll find out.” He finished the last stroke and stood to inspect their work. “Aziraphale is clever though. Ridiculous, occasionally oblivious, and very stubborn, but mostly clever.”

He noticed the look on Anathema’s face then. It was the type of face you made at puppies.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said, and turned away to hide her smile.

“Would you like to do the honours, or shall I?”

Crowley and Aziraphale faced each other with the circle between them, Anathema beside Madame Tracy. In Aziraphale’s hand was a sword that would struggle to cut jelly, but nonetheless looked very impressive.

“If I do it,” Crowley said, “he’ll just ignore me.”

“If I do it, he’ll likely bring a pot of hellfire,” Aziraphale pointed out.

They looked at Anathema. She glanced between the both of them, eyes wide.

“Oh, fine.” She closed her eyes briefly, steeling herself. “Summon a duke of Hell, sure, why not? Mom will be so proud.”

“We won’t let anything happen to you,” Aziraphale promised and, with a flick of the wrist, his sword burst into flame. Crowley took an automatic step back. “It’s not holy, don’t worry, my dear. Now, miss Device, repeat after me.”

On the second repetition of the summoning incantation, the circle began glowing blood red. The floor sizzled and Anathema’s voice faltered.

“Again, dear girl!”

Louder now, Anathema repeated the words, flinching back as the light flared and a terrible stench filled the room.

“Yup, that’s Hastur alright.”

In the centre of the circle a fat maggot appeared to wriggle up out of the floor. Then another, followed by another, then several more, more and more maggots pouring up like a pale fountain of decay. They writhed as the pile grew, hitting the edge of the circle and recoiling.

“Aren’t you glad we didn’t use chalk?” Crowley grimaced as the nasty buggers bunched together, the pile growing taller and taller, taking the shape of a man.

“Very,” Anathema said, voice only a little unsteady. She’d faced down Satan, after all. This was nothing in comparison.

As the maggots looked less like maggots and more like a corpse in a trench coat, Aziraphale shuffled to stand in front of them, sword raised. Crowley leaned closer so he could surreptitiously clutch a section of Aziraphale’s jacket between two fingers.

“ _What pathetic mortal_ ,” Hastur’s voice rumbled, guttural and gritty as his vocal cords wriggled into place, “ _what misguided human, what cursed soul dares summon the demon Hastur, Duke of Hell?_ ” 

Crowley couldn’t help himself. “Why are you referring to yourself in the third person? Is that supposed to be scary?”

One final maggot squirmed under Hastur’s eyelid and disappeared. Anathema made a queasy sound.

“You!” Hastur’s pit-black eyes widened, the toad on his head clutching at his temples. He bared his teeth and stepped to the edge of the circle, hands clawed as he took in his surroundings. “Is this a joke? You know I hate jokes.”

“Not a joke, no,” Aziraphale said pleasantly.

It seemed that Aziraphale’s immunity to Hellfire had made its long way down the grapevine from Heaven. At the sight of him and his sword, Hastur took a step back.

“Crowley, you traitor. You have a lot of nerve,” he spat, “calling on me like this. And you!” He pointed at Anathema, peeking around Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Your immortal soul is mine! I’ll rip out your tongue and eat it right in front of you. If you think _wank wings_ here can protect you, you are sorely—”

“That’s quite enough,” Aziraphale said firmly, shifting to further obscure Anathema from view. Crowley felt a swell of pride that this angel was on his side. “That kind of language is uncalled for. We’re doing you a favour after all.”

“I don’t like jokes,” Hastur insisted, and his hands burst into flame. “Release me.”

“For Hell’s sake, Hastur,” Crowley exclaimed. He stepped behind Madame Tracy and touched his fingertips to her temple. “Wake up.”

Her head snapped up, crimson eyes blinking themselves clear. The irises changed to toxic green as Ligur jerked against the rope, Madame Tracy’s face twisting with a demonic snarl. “What is this,” he growled, struggling violently. “Crowley, you slimy little creep, I’m gonna stick you like a—”

“Ligur?”

Madame Tracy’s head jerked towards the voice, eyes flickering through storm grey and seasick chartreuse before settling on a bruised blue. “Hastur? What the Heaven is going on?”

“An excellent question.” Aziraphale lowered the flaming sword. “How about we all have a nice chat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🐸


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little persuasion, a daring rescue, Shadwell's magic finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot of fun to write. These characters are completely chaotic.

“Ligur!” The last time Crowley had seen such a look of shock and confusion on Hastur’s face, he’d been looking at a computer for the first time. “I thought you were dead!”

Ligur tugged on the ropes once more, falling still when Aziraphale waved the sword in his direction. “I was but I wasn’t gone. Got stuck in Crowley’s flat until I could get my vengeance.”

“He trapped me in his answering machine once. You mean like that?”

“Dunno. I remember burning and melting and then emptiness. Then I didn’t have a body but I was in the walls, in the air, in the wires. Couldn’t leave. Too angry. And there was Crowley, slithering about as he pleased. I knew my only way out was through _him_.”

Both dukes shot him looks that could curdle milk. Crowley raised his hands. “In my defence, it was self-defence. You were going to kill me.”

“It’s what you deserve, you backstabbing, two-timing, pathetic excuse for a demon.”

Crowley’s jaw worked. “Right. Probably deserve that. But I never asked to be a demon.”

“None of us _asked_ ,” Ligur pointed out. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“You went native, Crowley,” Hastur cut in. “You’re a deserter. You betrayed our Lord, turned your back on our glorious purpose. Killing you was practically merciful.”

“Well I, for one, am quite sick of killing,” Aziraphale said. “Killing is what got us into this mess. Ligur, you got a second chance. Wouldn’t you like to use it for some Good for a change?”

“No.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale an exasperated look, but the angel only shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

The plan was simple on paper. Summon Hastur, send Ligur off with him. In reality, demons were stubborn, nasty bastards.

“Hey, guys.” Anathema had left the room earlier, claiming their auras were giving her a headache, but now she popped her head back in. “Sorry to interrupt, but, Crowley, where do you keep your tea?”

Crowley turned his stare on her. “I don’t have any tea.”

“You don’t—? But you’re English – right. I’ll just – never mind.” She slipped away again.

“Where were we?” Crowley asked the room at large.

“Killing you,” said Ligur and Hastur.

“Right, right.” Crowley nodded, then turned the motion into an ambivalent swaying of his head. He wrinkled his nose. “You know, killing me sounds like an awful lot of work. I mean, there’s no guarantee you even can kill me – demon immune to holy water, remember?” He spread his arms. “Don’t think you want to find out what other tricks I’ve got up my sleeve.”

“As always,” Hastur scoffed, “you’re bluffing.”

“He’s immune to holy water?”

Hastur grunted an affirmative. “We tried to execute him for his crimes. Didn’t work.”

Ligur looked at him like rotten eggs that had been left in a car on a hot summer day, which was unfair considering Hastur was right there. “You really have gone native.”

“What’s so bad about that?” Crowley shrugged. “Been trying to tell you guys for centuries how great it is up here.”

“What I’ve seen hasn’t been all that impressive,” Ligur grumbled.

“We’d be perfectly happy letting you go back to Hell,” Aziraphale said. “So long as both of you promise not to kill Crowley. Or have him killed. Or hurt in any way.”

“When you think about it,” Crowley added, “the only reason Ligur’s not space dust is because he wanted revenge so badly. It’s thanks to me that he’s even still here.”

“You’re mad,” Hastur insisted.

“And if we don’t agree?”

“I imagine Madame Tracy would have something to say about that,” Aziraphale said, a touch smug. “That’s why you haven’t been able to discorporate either of us, isn’t it? She’d been fighting you.”

Ligur glared at him silently.

“I thought so. In any case, if you do refuse our very reasonable request – Crowley’s safety for your freedom – I suppose I could smite you.” Aziraphale hefted his sword and peered at the nails of his free hand. Crowley’s breath caught; he _liked_ this side of Aziraphale. “Or exorcise you again. We have a whole book of different exorcisms to try. It wouldn’t be very pleasant, but you’d be forcing my hand, you see.”

“Nah, I’ve got a better idea. We can tie him up in front of the telly and play _The Sound of Music_ on repeat until he cracks.”

Ligur appeared intrigued. “What’s that?”

“It’s like torture for angels. You wouldn’t last ten minutes.”

“And what about me?” Hastur complained. “You can’t keep me here forever. Beelzebub will come looking eventually.”

Crowley flashed a toothy grin. “I hope they do. Then I’ll be able to explain that you’re trying to kill me, when they ordered I was to be left alone indefinitely.”

At that moment, Anathema walked back into the room, carrying a tray of steaming mugs. Crowley vaguely recognized them as things he owned. One of them said _World’s Best Demon_ and had accompanied a commendation after the whole Y2K fiasco. 

“I got bored so I made coffee,” Anathema announced. “Took me ages to figure out how to use your machine. It wasn’t plugged in you know.”

“So?”

She gave him an odd look and began handing out mugs. The angel-winged one for Aziraphale (and Crowley had honestly forgotten he had that mug, just in case Aziraphale ever came by), the sleek black one for Crowley, the _World’s Best Demon_ one for Hastur (which she put on the floor just outside the circle), another black one for herself, and finally a mug with a curly straw that she held out in front of Ligur.

The straw had come with a certain fast-food children’s meal, which Crowley was quite proud of. People had no idea how much _un_ happiness those children’s meal toys caused.

Ligur glared. “My hands are tied.”

“That’s why I’m holding it for you.” Anathema took a sip of her coffee and lifted the straw closer to Ligur’s face.

Hastur stared at his mug, vaguely impressed. “That’s quite evil, putting that in my sight but where I can’t reach it.”

“You can have it when you’re being good.”

“Never.”

Anathema shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

There was a strained moment where the four of them sipped (or sucked up) their coffee and Hastur glowered.

“This is good,” Ligur said, sounding surprised.

Anathema’s eyebrows raised. “You’ve never had coffee before?”

“Not like this,” Crowley muttered, since Ligur was busy slurping. “Hell only has sludge with coffee grits at the bottom.”

“No coffee in Heaven either,” Aziraphale sighed, breathing in the steam with closed eyes. “They’re all about natural energy and meditation.”

“Uptight pricks,” Hastur grumbled.

Aziraphale didn’t argue, which made Hastur’s face pinch in disappointment. Whether intentional or not, Anathema’s interruption had diffused the aggression in the room, and some of the tension in Crowley’s shoulders faded. Without the death threats actively flying, there was a glimmer of hope that they could actually convince Hastur and Ligur to leave without making a scene.

So, of course, it was in that moment that Shadwell burst through the front door. “Marjorie!”

Someone’s mug shattered. Everyone else hastily put their mugs down.

Newt tumbled in after him. “Sergeant Shadwell, wait!”

“ _Mr. S_!” cried Madame Tracy. “Shut up!” snapped Ligur.

“Oh, dear.”

“What have they done to ye, sweet Jezebel? You foul fiends!” Shadwell stalked into the room, aiming his finger at each of them in turn. In his other hand he clutched a bible, while Newt appeared to be juggling a cigarette lighter and an old schoolmaster bell. “Light the candle, laddie!”

“But, Sergeant—”

“Light it!”

Grimacing, Newt flicked the lighter, a tiny flame flickering to life.

“Ring the bell!”

Newt bit his lip and rang it, very gently.

“By the powers invested in me,” Shadwell chanted, eyes wide, finger locked on Madame Tracy’s head.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale sighed, rolling his eyes skyward, though he really should have known better.

“—Witchfinder, I charge ye—"

“What-what’s he doing?” Hastur’s what’s-a-computer expression was back.

For once, Crowley didn’t have a dumbed-down (but carefully-worded so as not to sound dumbed-down) explanation. He shook his head, baffled. Newt stood by, shuffling his feet with an embarrassed expression.

“—return henceforth to the place—”

Ligur made an odd sound. At first, Crowley thought he was laughing, but then Madame Tracy jerked, and she was pale-faced with sweat beading at her temples.

“—deliver us from evil—”

“It’s working,” Anathema hissed, expression victorious, eyes locked on Madame Tracy.

“—returning no more!” Shadwell touched his finger to Madame Tracy’s forehead and held up the bible, his teeth bared in determination.

Madame Tracy convulsed, her eyes rolling back.

“ _What’s_ working?” Crowley demanded.

“Stay back!” Shadwell warned, pointing at Crowley. “Or I’ll use my finger on you next, Your Honour.”

“Wait, is it _actually_ working?” Newt demanded shrilly.

Madame Tracy gurgled. Her body appeared to vibrate and blur, as if she were splitting in two.

“ _What’s working_?” Crowley repeated, more fervently.

“I slipped a little dispossession potion into her coffee,” Anathema admitted. “It’s supposed to help the drinker reject demonic forces.”

“Witch!” Shadwell cried, pointing at Anathema now.

“No, no, no!” Newt hurried to Anathema’s side. “Not a witch, she’s not a witch! She’s only got two nipples, I swear!”

Anathema’s jaw dropped. “Newt!”

“Ligur?” Hastur was standing at the very edge of the circle, the toes of his boots beginning to sizzle. “What’re you doing? Stop it. Are you killing him _again_?”

Madame Tracy’s head tilted back, her mouth opening to release a long, wheezing exhale, a noxious stream of black smoke spilling out of her.

Crowley stumbled back, pulling Aziraphale with him. There was no way he was going to risk Ligur trying to possess the angel – they’d probably explode.

“He needs a new body,” Aziraphale explained, eyeing the smoke distrustfully. So far it had pooled harmlessly in a cloud over Madame Tracy’s head. “Only a receptive one will do. Any volunteers?” His gaze settled on Hastur.

Hastur blinked, mouth opening and closing like a half-dead fish. “Me?”

The black substance churned like a particularly angry, particularly sentient storm cloud. Everyone took another step back.

“Do you want him stuck in Crowley’s TV forever?” Anathema asked.

Hastur shifted, fingers clenching and unclenching as he stared at the Ligur-cloud. “You want us to…share?”

“I’m sure if you ask Dagon really really nicely she’ll get him a new corporation,” said Crowley, who really really did not want to have Ligur in his television. “Then you two can go back to torturing and lurking to your hearts’ content.”

“I hate you,” Hastur whined, but closed his eyes and spread his arms in welcome.

The oily smoke condensed into a funnel that swirled towards Hastur like a toad-sensing tornado, the haze engulfing his head. Tendrils curled over his face, finding the openings, and the smoke poured into his mouth, nose, ears, and eyes.

Hastur shuddered and let out a groan that didn’t sound entirely pained or disgusted, rather the opposite, which had the effect of making everyone else in the room feel pained and disgusted.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Newt muttered, turning away.

“Mr. S?” Madame Tracy croaked.

“Margie!” Shadwell bent closer to her, cupping her face in his hands. “Someone cut this damned rope.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, the rope unravelled, and Madame Tracy and Shadwell embraced. The look on Aziraphale’s face was the type of face you made at puppies.

In the middle of the summoning circle, Hastur was twitching like a puppet controlled by a toddler. “ _Haster_? Ligur! _You’re really letting me share your corporation_? Just until we get back to Hell.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Right, yes, about that. The only way out of that circle is if you agree to our terms.”

“He means I have full immunity,” Crowley clarified. “I’m untouchable. Same for the angel. You’re not dead, we’re even. So there.”

“Fine,” they said at once, voices overlapping. “You—" said Hastur, “ _Slimy little creep,_ ” interjected Ligur, “—and your dumb angel boyfriend are safe. Release us.”

It was supposed to be an insult, but Crowley had to fight not to smile. 'Boyfriend' was a little juvenile, but he could work with it.

“If you mean it, you can just walk out.” Aziraphale gestured at the circle.

Scowl firmly in place, Hastur poked at the edge of the circle. When his finger didn’t sizzle, he proceeded to step out of it, bend down, and pick up the _World’s Best Demon_ mug. “I’m taking this.” He took a sip and headed for the front door, his gait like that of the heavily intoxicated.

“ _Do you think my office is still there?_ Murid took it, but we can feed him to the hellhounds. _That’s alright then_.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the end!

Madame Tracy was understandably rattled by her ordeal, though she handled herself with aplomb, patting down her hair and smoothing down her dress. She was the only human, Aziraphale was quite certain, to have been possessed by both a demon and an angel.

“Mr. Ligur was not nearly as pleasant as Mr. Aziraphale,” she groused, returning from Crowley’s toilet with her hands clean and blood-free. “I’m terribly sorry about stabbing you.”

“Well,” Aziraphale laid a hand on his belly. “It was hardly your fault. No lasting harm done.” He could feel the warmth of Crowley hovering by his shoulder and allowed his weight to shift, allowed himself to brush against his – his – well, ‘boyfriend’ was such a juvenile term. Was that something Crowley would like?

“Still, I think I’m finished with séances.” She patted Shadwell’s arm. “Even for Mrs. Ormerod.”

“Aye.” Shadwell was already inching for the door, pulling her with him. “I’m making our retirement official. And there won’t be a party,” he warned the room, aiming his distrustful gaze at everyone except Newt, “so don’t ask.”

Since Newt had driven Shadwell, it meant that he and Anathema had to leave, too.

“Miss Device,” Aziraphale hurried to say. “Before you go, I just have a quick question.”

She paused in the entryway and waved Newt on. “I’ll be down in a minute, hun.” She turned to face Aziraphale, holding her bag in front of her. “What’s up?”

“Do you recall a certain one of Agnes’s prophecies—”

“I memorized all her prophecies.”

“Right, of course. Well, there was one that went something like _When the angel seeketh the demon and the demon seeketh the angel, lend thy_ —”

“— _lend thy eye Anathema, for harts so blind cannot enjoin._ Yes, I remember it.”

“I can’t help but think that means,” he looked to Crowley, whose golden irises, shrinking to their more human state, were trained on him, “well, us.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat, because he’d been turning over the idea of blind hearts in his head for a while now, and it was a bit embarrassing to be discussing it out loud.

His heart _had_ been blind, perhaps, before this mess. Not that hearts had eyes, per se. It was quite obvious that Crowley loved him, though Aziraphale had suspected that decades ago. Of course, Aziraphale loved him back, despite their opposing natures, and they were quite happy now, gravitating around each other like always. Weren’t they?

He cleared his throat. “I suppose I was wondering if you would lend your eye?”

Anathema’s gaze bounced back and forth between them, her expression a touch taken aback. “You really want my…what? Advice?”

“Angel, let the girl go,” Crowley said, familiar exasperation tinging his voice. “She probably has no idea what you’re talking about.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, a retort on the tip of his tongue, but Anathema beat him to it.

“I can see auras, you know.”

“Oh, I’ve read about those,” Aziraphale said, chest bubbling with excitement. “I’ve always been a tad skeptical, I’ll admit.”

“That sounds made up.”

“They’re definitely real,” Anathema insisted. “I can see people’s strengths, weaknesses, feelings...and, um, connections. Compatibility. That sort of thing.”

Some of the bubbles deflated. Aziraphale was a very private person. The idea of someone knowing such things about him with just a look was rather mortifying. That steady gaze of Anathema’s was suddenly much more disconcerting.

“I already know how I’m feeling,” Crowley said quickly. “Don’t need someone else to tell me.”

Anathema shrugged. “I don’t have to tell you. If you two have really been around since the Beginning I’m sure you know everything there is to know about your relationship already.”

Aziraphale clasped his hands and peeked at Crowley again, hesitating when he saw Crowley’s shifty expression. “Of course, but a second opinion…”

Crowley grabbed his shoulders, quick but gentle, and turned him so they were facing each other. Aziraphale allowed it, aware of Anathema from the corner of his eye. “Angel, what does it matter?” he asked, voice fierce, eyes burning. “We’re on our own side. It doesn’t matter where we come from, doesn’t matter what she sees. What about what _we_ see?”

They were so close, nearly close enough that their noses brushed. Aziraphale wanted to sway even closer. It was just like that time in the paintball-centre-converted-satanic-nunnery. “What we see?”

“Yeah. Yeah, what do you see, angel?”

“I…I see you, my dear. Just you.” Not a demon, not an adversary, not even a friendly one. Just the person whose near constant presence in his shop the past weeks had been a source of such exasperation-tinged joy. Crowley was the one who brought him chocolate croissants and flowers, who napped on his couch (and in his bookstacks and on his ceiling), who had saved him more times than he could remember, who was worth going into Hell for (and exorcising Ligur and getting stabbed by Ligur), and whose lips Aziraphale wanted to taste. Perhaps he understood what Crowley was getting at. Perhaps he was overcomplicating things. “Everything I want.”

Those words seemed to physically hit Crowley. He blinked, stunned. “I see you, too. My best friend, my…everything.”

For several breaths they stood in each others’ arms, just seeing. They looked exactly the same, nothing had changed, and yet everything had. All because of a question Aziraphale realized he didn’t need an answer to.

“For the record,” Anathema said, “your auras are super complementary and in sync. In case you still cared.”

They didn’t, but it was nice to hear all the same. By the time they tore their eyes away from each other to look at her, she was already heading for the door. She smiled at them over her shoulder.

“Also, you’d be great housemates. Just a thought.”

“What was that about?” Newt asked as Anathema settled into the passenger seat.

“Just fulfilling one last prophecy. Agnes had a sense of humour.”

Newt pulled into traffic, biting his tongue to resist telling Madame Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell to put on their seatbelts. It was a generational thing, he figured. Or the fact that they were too busy cuddling. He hoped he and Anathema would still cuddle like that when they got old. “Are they going to be okay?”

Anathema couldn’t actually tell if people would be compatible based on their auras. She had met perfectly happy couples with the most clashing of colours, others with auras so close they were nearly identical. From the back seat, Shadwell and Madame Tracy exuded a stormy navy and a tired-looking tope, making a dull blueish glow. She could tell if someone was angry or sad or jealous or frightened, she could tell if someone was stubborn or timid or carefree, but even then, it wasn’t an exact science.

But ‘lending thy eye’ could mean anything. She didn’t need to see auras to know that Aziraphale and Crowley were irredeemably in love, eternally devoted to each other, perfectly complementary, and both pining idiots. It was no difficulty to pull the veil from around those blind hearts.

“Yeah. They’ll be okay.”

It was around lunchtime that Aziraphale looked up from his book to find the shop empty. It had been a slow morning, potential customers uninterested in wasting the sunny spring day inside a dusty old bookshop, so Aziraphale felt entirely justified when he flipped his sign to closed.

It was a perfect day for a picnic, he thought.

He headed upstairs to find the bed empty and the sheets made, so he climbed the last set of stairs to the rooftop greenhouse. Crowley’s voice drifted to him through the leaves and tugged his lips into a smile.

“…wasn’t so sure about you, to tell the truth,” Crowley was saying, punctuating himself with sprays from his water mister, “but you’ve really pulled through. Little more sun did you some good.”

Aziraphale paused by a hanging basket of lavender, enjoying the scent as much as he enjoyed watching Crowley dote upon his plants. The air was warm and humid, fragrant with life and brightened by sunlight. Aziraphale absently loosened his bowtie. 

Since sending Ligur back to Hell six months ago, they hadn’t heard a peep from Above or Below. It was for the best, they’d decided, that they keep the whole soul thing to themselves. If either side knew that ethereal (or occult) beings could perish without utter obliteration, there would be little stopping them from attempting to restart the War, Ineffable Plan or not.

There was some relief, at least, that if Gabriel or Beelzebub did come for one or both of them again, there was a chance that it wouldn’t be the end.

“…skeptical about this whole ‘being nice to the plants’ thing, but you guys seem to like it well enough. Of course I _could_ be mean, if I wanted to – still a demon, after all – but it’s tough when you’ve got an angel watching your every move.” Crowley turned his head, lips twitching.

“I’ve got to keep a close eye, haven’t I,” Aziraphale agreed, abandoning the lavender to tuck himself against Crowley’s back and wrap his arms around his waist. He spoke into the soft skin at the nape of Crowley’s neck, fiery hair tickling his nose. “Just in case I need to thwart you.”

Crowley hummed and turned in his embrace, resting his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You’re doing a marvelous job,” he said against Aziraphale’s lips, raising the stakes, the old tempter.

It was no hardship for Aziraphale to silence him with a kiss, breathing in the sun-warm, earth-clean smell of him. Perhaps it was the weather, or the sight of Crowley’s charming gardening outfit, or the fact that he’d left his book at a particularly sensual scene, but Aziraphale found himself quivering into the kiss, his heart fluttering with desire. His grip tightened automatically and Crowley gasped, the water mister thumping to the ground when Aziraphale’s lips alighted on his throat.

“Randy, are we, angel?” Crowley murmured, threading his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. “Did you seriously just close the shop for an afternoon delight?”

“Actually,” Aziraphale pressed a lingering kiss to Crowley’s trachea, “I closed the shop because I realized I hadn’t yet told you I love you today.”

Crowley made an inarticulate sound and pressed closer, his nails scratching at the base of Aziraphale’s skull. “Incurable romantic.”

Aziraphale squirmed in Crowley’s arms until he could cup Crowley’s face in his hands. When their eyes met, he said, “You’re the love of my existence,” and waited just long enough to see the inevitable bloom of colour in Crowley’s cheeks before kissing him again. He’d been saying ‘I love you’ or some variation thereof to Crowley every day for months now, persevering despite Crowley’s blushing and tongue-tied protests and outright fleeing, until finally Crowley had admitted defeat.

It was important, despite Crowley’s discomfort (because of it, in fact), that Crowley learn he deserved to be loved and cherished. At last, Aziraphale knew he was getting through, because instead of melting into a snake and slithering free, Crowley deepened the kiss and urged him back – nearly tripping over the water mister – until he was pressed against the door. Their hips pressed together and Aziraphale moaned. Evidently, the season was getting to both of them.

“Love you, too,” Crowley murmured, quick and quiet, then pulled back to present him with a single red rose. He bowed almost comically, arm held out like a knight offering his hand to a princess. It was meant to divert Aziraphale’s attention from his sincerity, but Aziraphale was old-fashioned and unspeakably charmed.

With reverent fingers, Aziraphale took the rose. “And you call me the romantic.”

Crowley’s grin was shameless. “Nah. I just know how to butter you up.” Then he winked and went to his knees.

The noise that slipped from Aziraphale’s mouth could have easily been confused for a startled bird. “Not in front of the plants.”

Ignoring him, Crowley nuzzled him through his trousers, fingers kneading his thighs. “You’re the one that said I should be teaching them positive reinforcement.” His hands migrated to Aziraphale’s hips, squeezing when they pushed helplessly forward. “Just giving a demonstration.”

With one hand, Aziraphale tried not to crush his new rose. With the other, he tried not to pull out Crowley’s hair. The heat of Crowley’s breath and the squeeze of his long fingers were effectively muddling Aziraphale’s brain. “What, ohh, what am I being rewarded for?”

The look Crowley gave him through his lashes was positively sweltering. A thrill shot down Aziraphale’s spine and pooled like liquid lighting between his legs. “Who said anything about rewarding _you_?” Crowley gave a slow smile and made quick work of his fly.

In his mind, Aziraphale managed to half form a witty retort about how, in that case, this was essentially Crowley self-pleasuring. By then, though, Crowley’s mouth was hot and wet and clever on his flesh and all retorts, witty or otherwise, flew from his head.

Afterward, with pleasure fizzling out of their veins and Crowley’s breath slowing against his bare hip, Aziraphale would bring up the picnic and Crowley would happily agree. They would pack a basket with a never-ending supply of sandwiches and apple slices and wine and other treats to feed each other by hand. They would find a perfect spot, half in shade and half out, where they would lie on a black blanket rimmed with tartan (a compromise) and talk of anything and nothing. Perhaps they would watch the clouds or the people or the ducks. Perhaps Aziraphale would return to that sensual scene in his book and card his fingers through Crowley’s hair while he napped in the sun.

It didn’t matter, especially, what they did. Not when they knew they would do it together. And when the end really did come for them, be it next year or after another six thousand, maybe then they would imitate Ligur and haunt the earth, unable to give up all its pleasures. Maybe they would go to the stars, Alpha Centauri at long last, to blink and entwine and dance as space dust. Maybe they would go nowhere, to nothing, to live on only in stories and memories, forever inseparable.

It didn’t matter, especially, they decided. Wherever they were meant to go, they would go together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading! You can also find me on [Tumblr.](https://notesoflore.tumblr.com/)


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